The Wrong Summoning

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I had stolen the Occult book from the antique bookshop a few days ago and now everything was almost ready to summon Satan. I planned to do a bargain with him, my soul for fortune and fame.

I lit the last black candle at the fifth point of the upside down pentagram. I took the sliver jeweled dagger and slit the blade across the palm of my left hand. With a glance at the open page, I shut my eyes, muttered the Latin words and wrote out the word ‘Satan’ in my own blood across the bare wooden floor of my parent’s attic.

Finishing the ritual, I peered down and saw my blood shinning in the flickering candle light. I read the letters; S-a-n-t-a.

‘Ho-ho-ho!’ a booming voice shouted out.

I jumped, my hands landed across the still wet name on the floor, smearing the blood. Looking up, I saw a mountain of a man standing in the middle of the black chalk pentagram. He was dressed in a bright red suit, trimmed with white snowflake like fluff, he had black shiny boots laced tight and with brass studs down the sides. A top his head was massive red hat, trimmed white which flopped over at the end with the weight of a huge white pom-pom.

He had long, white snow glittery hair and beard decorated with sliver bells, small baubles in red, green, blue and gold, also holly leaves and red berries. He had a fat, jolly face with pink circle cheeks and some wrinkle lines about his bright blue eyes and large lips. There was also a sweet smell like; warm biscuits, cinnamon and hot chocolate.

‘Satan?’ I whispered.

‘Santa!’ he corrected me.

‘What?’ I mouthed.

‘Hee-Hee! Ho-ho-ho!’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want you, I wanted-‘ I trailed as I looked down at the bloody letters on the floor.

‘But you did summon me, young man,’ Santa’s booming voice came.

I pressed my lips together, not sure what to say.

‘Now, what is it you want? You have disturbed my slumber. Christmas day was two days ago, you know,’ he said in a jolly tone.

‘I’m sorry,’ I called out, finding my voice, ‘there’s been a mistake. I want Satan! NOT YOU!’

Santa stared at me with piercing blue eyes. The happy, jolliness faded from his face and he become angry and menacing. That look really didn’t suit him and I felt a shiver of fear.

‘James Michael Benedict,’ Santa spoke, ‘you have been on my Naughty List for as long as I can remember.’

I opened my mouth then closed it again, words failed.

‘Have you called on me to try and change your ways?’

I shook my head.

‘Right then.’

Santa put his hand in a deep side pocket and pulled out a yellow scroll and a white feather ink pen. He unrolled the scroll and handed it to me with the pen.

I took it, unable to refuse, my hands shaking. The script on the thick paper was in curly writing and the words the kind lawyers use on fancy business contracts. I couldn’t make much sense of what it was saying but that also might be because I couldn’t focus. My brain had seemed to have left me.

‘Sign at the bottom, James,’ Santa said.

‘What is this?’ I asked, trying to read it.

‘What do you think it is? The reason why you summoned me; a bargain.’

‘My soul for fortune and fame?’

Santa frowned, ‘not exactly. Those are not the deals I do.’

‘My soul for what then?’ I inquired, looking over the top of the scroll.

‘To get on to the Good List, James,’ Santa explained.

‘No!’ I cried.

I threw the scroll and pen away over the top of the candles and against some forgotten, dusty box in the attic.

‘That’s not what I want! I don’t care about the Good List! I want money and fame.’

Santa clicked his fingers and the scroll and feather pen were back in his hand. He pushed them on me again. I tried to stop myself from taking them but my hands were not my own.

‘Now, sign,’ Santa demanded.

I felt the cut on my palm re-opening, the blood lined the wound once more. I dipped the ink pen into the blood and wrote my name at the bottom of the scroll. I couldn’t seemed to stop, even though I wanted too.

The scroll and pen flew away from me. Santa held them once more. He looked down at them, seemed satisfied and put them back into his pocket. Then he held out his hand and took my own, the one with the cut palm.

A chilly, north wind howled around the attic, snowflakes drifted. The candles went out, the smoke curling into nothing within the darkness. Jingle bells sounded.

I felt a whoosh, freezing air blazed me and I was flying up the old chimney. We landed on the roof which was covered in frost. Snow was still falling and the wind blowing. Before us was a glossy red sled, decorated with bells, holly and tinsel. A team of  harnessed reindeer were pulling the sled.

‘Wait…’ I spoke out.

‘Get in,’ Santa said.

‘No…What did I just agree to?’

‘Your soul is mine now and since it is still December and just in the season, I am allowed to claim it now.’

‘But that’s not what I wanted!’ I shouted.

‘I’m tried of you now, James,’ Santa said.

He shook his head and dragged me into the sled. I tried to dig my feet into the roof but it was slippery. He picked me up with ease and put me into the back, throwing rough sacks over me.

I tried to struggle out, but the sacks, though empty, were heavy and I couldn’t move them.

‘Let me go!’ I screamed.

Santa climbed into the front, took the reins and slapped them down. The reindeer ran forward. I screamed as we took off. The reindeer and sled flew into the sky. My ears popped and my screaming echoed. I had accidentally sold my soul to Santa.

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Christmas Caroling Cans #PhotoChallenge

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I had this weird dream last night. All these drink cans were alive, they had gather together and formed a choir. They were singing Christmas carols in loud, tin  voices.  People were throwing them money and singing along, like it was totally normal.

I knew it wasn’t real and I tried to tell everyone, but no one would listen! Then I knocked all the cans over in a rage. I got arrest for disturbing the peace and assault. I had to spend Christmas in jail.

When I got out everyone threw cans at me and said I’d ruined Christmas.

 

(Inspired by; https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/12/11/photo-challenge-242/ with thanks.)

Hallomas #TwitteringTales

A war was going on in the office between the Halloween lovers and the Christmas lovers. All the decorations kept getting switched around until one day, everyone around at work and saw that someone who had clearly had enough of the war had created a new combined holiday; Hallomas.

 

(Inspired by; https://katmyrman.com/2018/10/16/twittering-tales-106-16-october-2018/ with thanks).

Snail Mail #1LinerWeds

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He misunderstand the term and thought people wrote letters to each other on the shells of snails.

(Inspired by; https://lindaghill.com/2018/08/15/one-liner-wednesday-snail-mail/ with thanks).

Grartor Party #TaleWeaver

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Molly’s seven year old son, Ben, emptied his school bag on the dinning room table. Molly caught a pencil as it rolled her way then eyed the mess of school books, papers and other items. Ben had a habit of collecting things.

‘What’s this?’ Molly asked picking up a blue envelope.

Ben shrugged and his eyes drifted to the TV in the next room. His three year old, twin sisters were sat before the screen watching cartoons.

Molly opened the envelope and took out a thin slip of paper.

‘Your invited to a grartor party,’ she read aloud slowly.

The handwriting and spelling were clearly a child’s. Molly looked at the name and address at the end, but didn’t recognise them.

‘Who is Riley?’ she enquired.

‘He’s new,’ Ben said.

‘And what’s a grartor?’

‘Don’t know.’

Molly looked at the date, the party was tomorrow. She checked the address again, it wasn’t far from their house and the start time was 2pm.

‘Do you want to go to his party?’ she asked, ‘Ben?’

‘Okay. Can I watched cartoons now?’

Molly nodded and Ben rushed over to join his sister. Molly sorted through the other stuff on the table. She flipped through his work books then piled them to one side, placing on top the book he currently had to read. There was a letter from the headmaster about head lice, a letter from Ben’s teacher about an end of year trip to the zoo and a maths homework sheet due in on Monday.

Molly re-packed his school bag then added things to her calendar. Then she did an internet search to find out what a grartor party was. Perhaps, this Riley was from a different country or religion and grartor related to turning eight or something like that?

The search engine told her it wasn’t actually a word, did she mean something else? Molly scrolled down the suggested websites hoping that it appeared as some kind of new child craze like fidget spinners but there was nothing.

This is why you don’t let a child write their own party invitations! Molly thought.

She looked over at her own children and decided she’d just have to find out tomorrow.

 

The next morning after breakfast, Molly got Ben ready for the party. Leaving her husband with the twins, she took Ben shopping and got a suitable birthday present for Riley. At half twelve, she drove over to the address and parked up.

Letting Ben out, they walked up the steps to the front door of the house. Bright green balloons weighed down behind the two large flower pots, greeted them. A banner over the door read, 8 Today! and an inflatable crocodile lay on the lawn.

‘Are you excited? Molly asked.

Ben pulled a face and clutched the wrapped birthday present.

‘I bet there’ll be cake and jelly and ice cream. Your other friends will be here,’ she pointed out.

Molly rang the doorbell and it was answered by a tried looking man who had a crocodile glove puppet on his hand.

‘Hi, I’m Molly Black. My son Ben was invited to Riley’s party. Sorry, I didn’t reply to the invite, I only found it in his bag yesterday. I hope you don’t mind us coming,’ Molly explained.

The man nodded, ‘Rory James, Riley’s dad. Please come in.’

He held the door, Molly and Ben entered. The house looked freshly moved into. There were green balloons tied everywhere and in the kitchen was a table covered in party food. Rory led them into the back garden were a few children where bouncing on a  green jungle themed bouncy castle and inflatable crocodiles were dotted around. Two woman were stood talking close by, drinking out of wine glasses.

‘I want a go!’ Ben cried, cheering up instantly.

‘Sure,’ Rory answered.

Molly took the present and Ben’s shoes then he ran off onto the bouncy castle.

‘What time should I come and pick him up?’ Molly asked.

‘Oh, you’re not staying?’

‘I’ve left my husband with our twin girls,’ Molly explained.

‘Five, I think it said on the invite. My wife can confirm that. I’ll introduce you then I must get back to finishing off the cake,’ Rory said.

They walked over to the two woman and the one wearing the blue dress with the mass of blonde hair was Rory’s wife, Celina. Rory introduced them then left.

‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Celina asked.

‘No, thanks,’ Molly replied, ‘I must get back home soon, I told my husband I wouldn’t be long. We are taking the twins to the park.’

‘Oh okay.’

‘This is for Riley,’ Molly said handing over the present, ‘I wasn’t sure what to get him. So, I let Ben pick it. Young boys tend to like the same things, I’ve found.’

‘Thank you,’ Celina spoke with a smile and took the gift.

‘What is a grartor party?’ Molly asked.

‘Riley came up with it. He said it meant a great gator. He’s obsessed with alligators!’ Celina laughed.

Molly nodded, the whole green and crocodile theme clicking into place. She talked for a few minutes with other parents who were arriving then she said goodbye and drove home.

At five, she returned and picked up Ben who chatted away about the good time he had had at the grartor party.

 

(Inspired by; https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/08/09/tale-weaver-183-making-sense-of-nonsense-grartor/ with thanks).

 

 

Mess #3LineTales

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It had only been two days away, just helping her dad move into a care home and she had trust that her husband would be able to handle things at home, how wrong could she have been?

(Inspired by; https://only100words.xyz/2018/07/26/three-line-tales-week-130/ with thanks).

Lost Leg #FridayFictioneers

It was a strange sight to see in the middle of the street, so Janet couldn’t help but wonder about it. The prosthetic leg could be a sculptor; a creative reminder about disabled people. Some kind of statement. It was just an odd way to show it, but then what did Janet know about modern art these days?

Or, as Janet turned about at the approaching of a one legged man on crutches, someone might just have lost their leg…

 

(Inspired by; https://rochellewisoff.com/2018/07/04/6-july-2018/ with thanks).

In The Cards #TwitteringTale

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I shuffled the tarot cards, they would reveal my future but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Taking the first ones, I made a cross shape then placed three on the right. I turned over all the cards and read what they meant. Seems the cards had read my mind; they told me nothing.

(Inspired by; https://katmyrman.com/2018/06/26/twittering-tale-90-pick-a-card-26-june-2018/ with thanks).

The Right Tool #TaleWeaver

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‘This is the only thing I can find long enough, Bob!’ Shane called over the edge of the cliff.

Bob looked up, his grip slipping on the root he was clinging on to and saw Shame lowing down a saw, wooden handle first.

Bob had no choice but to reach for it.

(Inspired by; https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/06/07/tale-weaver-174-making-sense-of-nonsense/ with thanks).

Post It Note #47

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Hi Neighbour,

I found your hamster in my kitchen sink at 4am this morning!

From the ‘geeky guy’ at number 24.